


Traces of Light

by celinamarniss



Series: Animalis [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Character Study, F/M, Found Family, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24013204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celinamarniss/pseuds/celinamarniss
Summary: A series of short stories set in the Animalis 'verse.
Relationships: Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker
Series: Animalis [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722373
Comments: 50
Kudos: 61





	1. Tripwire

**Author's Note:**

> "Tripwire" was originally a subplot that was cut from chapter 3 of Luminous Creatures. I expanded it into this story.
> 
> In Luminous Creatures, Mara joins Karrde’s crew in 7 ABY (as opposed to joining six months before the Thrawn Trilogy starts in 9 ABY). This means that several members of Karrde’s crew, including Melina Carniss, are still alive when Mara joins. (In the books, Karrde presumably executes Melina off-screen after the Bacta War, and Tapper dies in “First Contact.”) I was going to put the story in which Mara ousts Melina in chapter three of Luminous Creatures, but it felt like a repetitive digression. I ended up writing it as its own little thriller in Tripwire.
> 
> A smidge of dialogue lifted from "Star Wars: X-Wing: The Bacta Wars" by Michael A. Stackpole and recontextualized for the purpose of this story.

**Tripwire**

* * *

“Your name?” Karrde asks her as he reaches across the table to shake her hand. 

“Mara Jade,” she says. It’s as though a tight band wrapped around her chest has snapped and she can breathe again. This is it—her chance. Fate holding a hand out to her. A place in Karrde’s crew will give her the opportunity she needs to dig her way out of the fringe’s dregs. 

The back of Mara’s neck prickles in warning and she hears Asyr’s growl even before the woman behind her speaks. “She’s a Hutt-slut, Karrde. You can’t trust her.” 

Mara forces herself not to spin around and pull her knife on the woman standing behind her. Asyr is still growling, a low rumble barely audible beneath the sound of the cantina. 

“Melina Carniss handles my security,” Karrde says by way of introduction, though none is needed. 

Mara hasn’t forgotten Carniss either. The black hair she wore long in Jabba’s Palace is now cropped short, with a white streak across her temple, meeting the ripple of a scar by her right eye. Her hyenax daemon bares razor sharp teeth framed by two long fangs. 

Carniss had caught Mara with a blaster in Jabba’s throne room and had assumed the shot was meant for the Hutt and not for Skywalker. If not for Carniss, Mara might have had a chance to take out the man who killed her master; if not for Carniss, Mara might have remained the Emperor’s Hand, not some desperate Fringer with a cracked brain. If, if, if—Mara’s gone over her failure so many times she’s not sure which piece of the tower puzzle was her downfall. 

After Jabba’s, the name _Melina Carniss_ stuck in Mara’s head and she’d swapped the initials for an alias several planets back. She still has the IDs on her. Otherwise, she hadn’t thought of the woman much, only as a minor player in her last, failed mission. 

_“Arica_ here,” Carniss says, “posed as a _dancer.”_ She didn’t need to put emphasis on the word; everyone knew what dancers did in Jabba’s court besides entertain the Hutt. 

“So did you,” Mara says and sees anger spark in Carniss’s eyes, though her voice remains level as she continues. 

“But...” Carniss continued. “It turned out she was an assassin sent by Lady Valerian.” 

“That was a misunderstanding,” Mara says, looking directly at Karrde, choosing her words carefully. 

She doesn’t refute Carniss’s allegation that she danced for Jabba (it happens to be true) or offered sexual services to his court (Asyr wouldn’t let anyone get close). Better to let them assume she was a hanger-on at Jabba’s court than to reveal her actual purpose there. 

“I was never an assassin for Lady Valerian. I ended up on Tatooine and I was a good dancer, so...” Mara shrugs a shoulder to indicate the rest of the story isn’t worth telling. “I was just trying to get by.” 

Carniss barks a disbelieving laugh. Her hyenax daemon grins, his pointed ears twitching. 

“She just _stopped_ an assassin,” Aves says. “Isn’t that _your_ job?” 

Carniss’s humor evaporates, her mouth curling into a snarl. Her daemon’s hackles raise, a tall crest of stiff black fur along his back. “Shut your mouth and mind your own job, Aves.” 

“Now, now,” Tapper says. “Let’s calm down.” His jakrab daemon’s ears are pointed at the ceiling, a quiver running through them. She has her sharp eyes on Aves’s daemon—some variety of sciuridax with a grey and black coat and broad bushy tail—who bristles and bares her teeth right back at Carniss’s daemon. 

“She’s a liar, Tapper,” Carniss says, but without the same venom she used to address Aves. Tapper expression is dubious as his gaze flicks back and forth between Mara and Carniss. 

All at once, Mara can see where alliances fall among Karrde’s lieutenants; Tapper is allies with Carniss, Aves is not. Tapper outranks Aves, but Aves is confident enough of his place in Karrde’s organization to voice his opinions without fear of reprisals from his superiors. 

“A liar then and a liar now,” Carniss continues. “You know the sort of scum Jabba attracted.” 

“Aves was an employee of Jabba’s as well,” Karrde says conversationally. 

Mara doesn’t remember Aves, but that doesn’t mean much. Though some say the crime lord was in decline, Jabba’s network still reached throughout the galaxy at his death. Something happened between Carnsis and Aves while they were working for Jabba, and neither of them has forgotten it. 

Karrde leans forward and the attention of everyone surrounding the table—his three lieutenants, their daemons, and Mara—focuses back on him. There might be dissent among Karrde’s people, but Mara doesn’t doubt their allegiance to their leader. 

“As long as you don’t still harbor loyalties to the Hutt Kajidic,” he says, “—or anyone else—then you’re welcome to start over in my organization. Regardless of your past.” 

“Thank you,” Mara says. She looks up at Carniss. “It’s Mara now. Mara Jade.” 

Carniss gives her a cold nod. Even though her face has gone blank, her daemon betrays her state of mind, pacing back and forth behind her, fur erect along his spine. 

“Aves will supervise Mara on our run to Ord Mantell,” Karrde says. “When I get a better sense of your capabilities,” he tells her, “I’ll find a permanent position on one of my crews.” 

Mara thanks him again; his lieutenants accept his ruling without further argument. At some point he’s going to have to choose between her and Carniss, and Mara will have to ensure he makes the right choice. 

* * *

When the figures streaming in neat lines down the screen begin to blur Mara rubs her eyes and leans back in her chair, sighing. She’s close, she _has_ to be. Asyr bumps his head against her arm in sympathy. Straightening in her seat, she resumes the search. 

As soon as her eyes focus on the next set of transmissions, she spots the key. The sign she’s been looking for. Asyr makes a soft sound. 

At the next set of monitors, Ghent looks over. “Got something?” 

Sybil blinks her eyes, tilting a reptilian head. His lizard daemon always seems to be lounging over the top of a monitor or datatower, when she isn’t draped across his shoulders. 

Mara points to the screen. “Can you trace this set of transmissions?” Her slicing’s good, but she can’t measure up to a prodigy. 

“Sure.” 

She shifts aside so that he can get to work. Ghent likes her, but Mara thinks he’d warm to anyone who let him chat about his latest projects. He’s still young, and seems to think that being a slicer for a smuggling gang is just a big adventure, his perception of the organization and the man he works for largely based on spacers' tall tales. 

“Not a problem,” he says. “An old Imperial base encryption is nothing. I used to practice on these when I was a kid.” 

“Imperial?” A tingle runs down her spine. 

“The base code. It’s been adapted, but the hallmarks are still there. Look at that!” he points, laughing, at a line of encryptions. “A baby could break it.” 

Mara doubts that. “I see.” 

The list of transmissions that unfold are still in code—a code in phrases and numbers specific to the message that can’t be broken by a slicer. It doesn’t matter. Mara recognizes the recipient's code name. 

_Corcillum Glacies._

Isard. Ice washes through her. She can hear Asyr growling, his hackles raised. It only took her three months to find the proof she needs to bring down Carniss. 

“Is there something wrong?” Ghent asks. Sybil makes a clicking sound, alarmed. “Did you...” Ghent breaks off, distracted by something on the screen. “Oh. Oh, no, no, no, no.” 

“What?” Mara hisses. 

“Uh.” Ghent ducks his head, his cheeks going pink. “I forgot the tripwire alarm on these old codes. I knew they were there, I just forgot. I haven’t sliced one of these in a while…” 

“It’s okay,” she says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. Make a copy that can’t be destroyed.” 

She heads for the door to Ghent’s lair, her hand going to her holdout. It was the first thing she bought with the money she earned on Karrde’s crew and the familiar weight of it on her wrist is reassuring. 

“Hey, where are you going?” Ghent asks, leaning back precariously in his chair. 

“Lock the door behind me,” Mara says. “Don’t let Carniss in.” 

“Huh?” 

“Lock. The. Door.” 

She needs to find Carniss before the woman finds her; she needs to find Karrde and tell him that his security officer is a spy for Iceheart. Leaving the low outbuilding, she stalks toward the large central building in the complex that serves as Karrde’s base of operations on Myrkr. 

She pauses at the door to the main building. Asyr looks up at her from his customary place at her side, but doesn’t interrupt her as she thinks through her next course of action. She places a hand on his head, stroking the soft fur between his ears. 

Mara’s still new to Karrde’s organization, and she doesn’t come with years working in a low-level smuggling ring as reference. True to his word when he recruited her, Karrde has never pressed her for any details of her past, but it must be obvious that she’s hiding her former identity from him. He has no reason to trust her. 

But—it’s too late to turn back now. She tripped the transmission’s alarm. One way or another, a confrontation with Carniss is inevitable. 

Mara hoped to find Karrde alone in his office, or perhaps taking his vornskrs for a walk around the compound, but she finds that the base has company. The Terriks—Booster and his daughter Mirax, stand with Karrde and Tapper in the doorway to the greatroom at the center of the building. 

Booster’s smuggling ring is small—compared to Karrde’s—but his reputation is outsized; he’s been in the game for longer than Mara has been alive. His daughter has built a reputation for herself as a dealer in antiques and rare luxury items, when she isn’t doing favors for the New Republic. Mara has only met them once before. 

Karrde looks even leaner next to Booster’s brawny form and the hulking Corellian bursa that stands at his side. Bellaris shifts on his shoulder, keeping the Terriks within sight of her good eyes, though not, Mara realises, from the tilt of Bellaris’s head, out of an excess of caution, but in order to have a clear view of whatever entertainment the pair might provide. 

Booster’s artificial left eye makes a subtle whirring sound, the lens a red gleam against the bulky silver eye socket, as it shifts and focuses on her a beat slower then his natural eye. 

“Mara!” Mirax says with a smile that’s warmer than their brief meeting three weeks ago on Obroa-skai warrants. “Nice to see you again.”

Mara shakes Mirax’s hand as the other woman’s sea otta daemon Illya bounds over to Asyr to touch noses in greeting. Many daemons take one look at Asyr and keep their distance, but Mara supposes that if Mirax were raised by a man with a bursa daemon, her daemon isn’t likely to be intimidated by large predator daemons. 

On Obroa-skai, Mirax had compared Asyr to a spukamas she’d had as a child. Asyr had been offended—a _spukamas!_ —but Mara had simply chalked it up as brainless chatter. It only occurred to her later that Mirax might have been attempting to put her at ease. 

“Shall we sit?” Karrde gestures toward a conversation circle in the greatroom, underneath the massive olbio tree in the center of the hall. Warm sunlight streams in through the translucent ceiling, offset by the blue glow of lights inset in the elaborately carved walls. The flagstones, made of the same sandy stone as the outer walls of the building, were etched with abstract swirling patterns. Mirax pauses to admire a Mimini sculpture from Karrde’s collection, among the art and artifacts placed deliberately throughout the room. 

Couches and conversation circles surround the olbio tree, but Karrde leads them to the circle directly in front of the wide tree trunk, where a wine service waits. Tapper trails behind, standing at attention behind Karrde’s chair rather than taking a seat. After Booster chooses a chair directly across from Karrde, Mirax sits between them. Mara plans to stand, as Tapper does, but to her surprise Karrde gestures toward one of the remaining chairs, across from Mirax. 

A bottle of wine sits on the table, and Mirax chatters about a Mimini bronze she recently procured for a client as Karrde pours for his guests. He likes to adopt unnecessary courtly manners when hosting clients, as he were a lord of some high house, rather than a criminal with a preposterous alias. 

Mara doesn’t know where Karrde’s pretensions come from, nor his predilection for ludicrous names; he’s never said a word to her about his upbringing, nor to anyone willing to talk to her. Any record of his past—homeworld, family name, indiscretions, criminal records, if they even existed—has been scrubbed from the holonet. She’s looked. Just as she’s sure that he’s checked her background, and found her past an equivalent void. It won’t be in her favor when she turns against Carniss. 

Booster shifts in his seat, clearly ready for the small talk to end. As soon as Mirax finishes her story, he leans forward in his seat, putting his glass back on the table. 

“We need—” He breaks off at the sound of the door to the greatroom sliding open again. Turning to glare over his shoulder, he freezes at the sight of Carniss in the doorway. Mara keeps her own face blank. 

She can tell from the expression on Carniss’s face that the other woman knows that someone activated the tripwire alarm on her encoded transmissions, but she hasn’t figured out _who_ the culprit is yet. Carniss’s gaze sweeps over the gathering, searching each face and daemon for signs of guilt. 

“Melina,” Mirax calls. There’s something about the smile she offers Carniss that strikes Mara as insincere, but she doesn’t know Mirax well enough to be certain. 

Mirax reaches across and touches Karrde’s arm, the smile she gives him a touch warmer. “Can I borrow her for a moment? I think we had a tail on Sullust, and I want to make sure I haven’t missed anything.” She turns back to Carniss. “I was impressed with that scan you did on Obroa-skai. Would you mind taking a look at the Skate?” 

“Sure,” Carniss says. 

“I appreciate it,” Mirax says, joining Carniss at the door. “I’ll open her up for you.” 

Carniss’s eyes dart over the group once more before she stalks after Mirax. 

“We have a problem,” Booster says as soon as the door closes behind them. 

“The ambush in the Alderaan system,” Karrde says coolly. “I was surprised I hadn’t heard from you sooner.” 

“I had to look into it,” Booster says. “I’ve been over the details again and again. I’ve checked my people. I’ve even had Mirax’s CorSec suitor look some material over to check this out.”

“The leak comes from my people,” Karrde finishes for him. “Melina Carniss sold you out.” 

Mara knows that she doesn’t succeed in keeping the surprise off of her face, and she can see Tapper’s face blanch of all color, his daemon going stiff beside him. 

“You knew?” Booster asks. 

“I did not,” Karrde says. “It was obvious the leak came from my organisation, but I didn’t know it was Carniss until Mirax maneuvered her out of here on flimsy pretenses. Are you certain it’s her?” 

Mara couldn’t have asked for a better opening. There had always been the danger that Karrde would trust Carniss’s word over hers, or that she might get caught in the crossfire of an inter-crew conflict, but Booster named Carniss first. Even so, she has to cast her play carefully unless she wants to be painted as an informer with a grudge. 

The truth, as much of it as she can offer. 

“I have evidence too,” she says. All eyes are on her. 

“I—” It was still difficult not to spin a tale. The truth. “I’ve never trusted Carniss. I didn’t trust her when we worked for Jabba, and I don’t trust her now. I’ve been scanning her private transmissions, just in case something came up, and I found coded transmissions from Isard. I was just coming to tell you.”

“I’d like to look over what you’ve found,” Karrde tells Mara. 

“Ghent has it. I only searched for transmissions that weren’t registered in the system. I found a set of messages that Carniss sent with an Imperial encryption code, sent to a source called _Corcillum Glacies._ Corcillum Glacies is one of Iceheart’s code names. I haven’t decoded the messages yet.” 

Karrde doesn’t ask how Mara knows Isard’s alias, but she can sense his curiosity simmering under his composed exterior. There’s no surprise at her accusation; no matter what he told Booster, Karrde suspected Carniss’s treachery even before Booster called this meeting. 

Booster spreads his hands. “You can check my proof, too. I don’t have any doubts. It’s Carniss.” 

“I’ll take your word,” Karrde says, pale blue eyes fixing on the other man. “And since you’re here, you can help me determine how to deal with this situation.” 

There’s an icy edge to Karrde’s voice Mara has never heard before. “Shoving her out into space would probably be the most expedient method of killing her—if you’re concerned with expediency. I’ve heard of a renegade band of Twi’leks who used to run electricity through a vat of bacta, torturing their victims to the point of death, then turning off the electricity and allowing the bacta to heal them up. It can take days, weeks for the body to give out. Or if you’d rather the more personal touch, I’ve recently acquired a Sith lanvarok. It promises to be truly elegant in action.” 

A blaster bolt between the eyes would be more than adequate, Mara thinks. What was the purpose of that bit of theater? To shock Booster into regretting his accusation? 

Booster looks completely unimpressed with Karrde’s threats. “No,” he says, shaking his head. 

“You prefer another method for dealing with traitors?”

“I do.” Booster grins, as much a grimace as a smile. “I want you to keep her alive and working.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Not good enough, Booster. You’ll have to do better if you want her to stay alive. She betrayed one of my customers to an enemy, causing harm to my customer, my people, and my reputation. I can’t have her threatening my customers. It’s bad for my reputation and bad for morale and puts me at a serious disadvantage in my business dealings. She has to die.” 

“If she stays in place, Isard won’t try to turn someone else,” Booster argues. “Better the Hutt you have tagged than one you don’t.”

“I’m still afraid I can’t—”

Booster’s comm crackles, a sharp burst of static and a single beep. Booster straightens at the sound. “Mirax wasn’t able to keep her distracted. That’s the signal that she’s on her way.” 

Every head turns as Carniss strides through the door, Mirax on her heels, her mouth set in a grim line. 

“Jade,” Carniss snarls. “You filthy, white-worm sneak.” 

The hyenax streaks across the room, leaping over the table at Mara’s throat. She dives to the side, narrowly escaping the hyenax’s snapping jaws. The chair clatters behind her, the hyenax momentarily tangled in the upturned legs as Mara scrambles away. Her foot catches on something and she hits the ground hard, her head bouncing off the corner of a pedestal that tips over with a loud crash. Stars spin across her vision. Somewhere behind her, she can hear Karrde and Tapper shouting. 

Before the hyenax has a chance pounce on her and finish the job, Asyr throws himself at the beast, raking his side and darting away from the hyenax’s claws. Twisting away from Mara, the hyenax leaps after Asyr. 

Mara, still half sprawled on the floor, lifts her head to watch the demons brawl, their battle a churning knot of teeth and fur. The hyenax is a powerful predator. He outweighs Asyr. If Asyr isn’t fast and vicious enough, he could kill them. 

“Stand down,” she hears Karrde roar. 

From across the room, Bellaris dives toward the two predators. They startle apart at the snap of her wings over their heads, and Aysr back away from the hyenax, still hissing. For a moment, it looks as if the hyenax will pursue, but then he glances over his shoulder at Carniss and holds back. Teeth still bared, he paces back and forth, hemming Asyr into a corner between a set of large, overturned chairs. 

Using the edge of a fallen pedestal, Mara attempts to push herself up, but her head swims and sinks down again, leaning heavily against the vitrine. Sharp edges of shattered sculpture lie scattered on the ground around her. She winces as a shard cuts through her trousers and digs into her thigh. Fumbling at her wrist, she releases the holdout into her palm and tears her gaze away from the daemons to the shouting on the other side of the conversation circle. 

“She’s a snake,” Carniss rages. Her knuckles are white around the grip of the heavy blaster in her hand. “I _told_ you she was a spy. Her dirty fingers are all over my personal comms.” 

“That doesn’t give you leave to attempt to kill her,” Karrde says. 

“I’m your security, Karrde. I _eliminate_ threats.” 

“Threats to your boss or threats to yourself?” Booster chimes in. Arms crossed, he and his daemon stand behind Karrde like a solid wall of muscle and fur. 

Carniss throws a venomous look his way. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Booster.” 

“Don’t I?” Booster drawls. 

Carniss is taken aback, whatever she planned to say next dying on her lips. Her gaze skitters over the group. 

“What lies did she tell you?” she asks, her voice low. Mara tightens her grip on her holdout as Carniss finally realizes that any standing she had has unraveled completely. 

“I don’t tolerate traitors,” Karrde says. “Or anyone who jeopardizes the lives of my people.”

“Her?” Carniss throws her arm in Mara’s direction. “She’s _your people_ now? Are you fucking her, Karrde?” A barked laugh. “She’s certainly your type.” 

_“Melina,”_ Tapper says. “Don’t. Take a moment and consider—” 

“Consider what, _Quelev?”_ Carniss spits out his first name. “That she’s turned you all against me?” 

“She hasn’t.” Tapper still tries to reason with her. He steps closer. “She’s still just a recruit. Please. Let’s take a moment. Don’t make this harder—” 

“It’s _over,_ Carniss,” Booster says, losing patience with Tapper’s attempt at placating her. “We didn’t need Jade to smoke you out. We already knew you sold us out to Iceheart.” 

“Kriffing _bastards.”_ Carniss raises her blaster. Before she can take aim, Tapper lunges for her, catching hold of her arm. Carniss doesn’t even hesitate. She whips her arm free and shoots Tapper’s daemon. 

The jakrab ceases to exist. Tapper falls like a felled tree. 

Even before she turns her head, Mara can hear the hyenax’s claws scraping across the floor as he races to defend his human. With Tapper dead, Mirax tries to restrain Carniss, who slams the butt of the blaster into Mirax’s face. Mirax staggers, but she doesn’t let go of Carniss. Her daemon’s teeth dig into Carniss’s boot. An errant shot blasts into the flagstones. The holdout wavers in Mara’s hand; she can’t get a lock on Carniss with Mirax in the way. The hyenax streaks past Mara, straight for Mirax. 

From behind Booster, the bursa explodes into motion. She’s on top of the hyenax in seconds, knocking the other daemon to the floor and trapping his head between rows of sharp teeth. 

The hyenas howls pitifully, his entire body quivering. Tears run down Carniss’s face as she stares at her daemon’s head locked in the bursa’s mouth. She continues to curse and fight Mirax’s hold, but her movements are sluggish and uncoordinated. 

Booster looks at Karrde for permission. “A lot of good people died in that ambush,” Booster reminds Karrde. “She’s no use to me now that her cover’s blown.” 

Karrde nods, a quick jerk of his head. He doesn’t look away as the bursa closes her jaws, crushing the hyenax’s skull between her teeth. Carniss’s scream cuts off as the hyenax vanishes like vapor, and she falls limp in Mirax’s arms. 

Mara sags against the pedestal, dropping her head and closing her eyes. Asyr brushes up against her back, his head burrowing into her neck. Mara winds an arm around him. 

_Kriff._ If Asyr hadn’t been fast enough—if Karrde hadn’t listened to her instead of Carniss—what a karking mess. 

When she looks up again, Karrde is crouched in front of her, Bellaris on his shoulder. 

“Mara,” he says, “are you alright?”

She stares dumbly at the cloth napkin he holds out to her. When she doesn’t move to take it, he reaches over and dabs at the blood running down the side of her face. Only then does she register the throb at her temple. It’s only a graze, but it stings under his touch. 

_His people,_ he’d called her. 

“Sorry about your man,” Booster says, ambling up and leaning over, hands braced on his knees. Behind him, Mirax’s little otta daemon is fussing over her in spite of her protests, the bursa looming nearby, somehow appearing both protective and smug at the same. 

Karrde sighs, looking tired. He turns his head to look over at the bodies crumpled on the flagstones. “Not the result any of us had in mind.” 

“A bargot worm-trap of mess, this whole thing,” Booster agrees. He makes a frustrated clicking sound. “Would have liked to’ve kept a reliable line to Iceheart in place, but what’s done is done.” 

Karrde still stares in the direction of Carniss and Tapper, though his gaze has gone distant. He taps a finger on the edge of the vitrine. His daemon is still as a statue on his shoulder as he considers. 

“I can delay news of Carniss’s death for two weeks, maybe three,” Karrde says. “If we can break her codes, then we can continue to feed Isard information for a short time. You’ll pay for the privilege as long as it lasts,” he tells Booster. 

Booster snorts. “Naturally,” he grumbles. 

“Once Isard sees through the ruse, you’re on your own. Our other deals remain in place.” After a moment’s pause and a grudging nod from Booster, Karrde continues. 

“Balig will take over Carniss’s position, at least until I can find someone more suitable. Mara will take Aves’s position. Aves will take Tapper’s. And in six months we’ll see.” 

_What?_ Mara stares at him. “You’re promoting me?” 

She had hoped he wouldn’t throw her out after starting an investigation he hadn’t authorised and pointing a finger at Carniss, provoking the incident that had led to Tapper’s death. She never expected him to make her a lieutenant in his personal circle. 

His cool blue gaze lands on her again. “I am. I believe rewarding hard work and encouraging potential.” 

Behind him Booster snorts. “You’ve always been too trusting by half, Karrde,” he says, looking significantly over at Carniss’s body. 

“Perhaps,” Karrde says, unoffended by the comment. “I find that most of the time, trust is an exchange. You have to give it to receive it. There are always ways it can be broken, but that’s a risk one must take in our line of work. And punish accordingly.” 

It was clear from the bodies lying on the flagstones what his punishment would entail. A fair price for his trust. 

“Do I have your loyalty, Mara?” 

“You do,” she vows. 

She takes the hand he extends, and he pulls her to her feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earth hyenas have a bad rap they don’t deserve, but [Star Wars hyenax](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Hyenax) are pretty terrifying! 
> 
> A [spukamas](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Spukamas) is a kitty! 
> 
> Tapper has the space equivalent of a jackrabbit, a [jakrab.](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Jakrab/Legends)
> 
> Aves’s sciuridax dæmon is basically grey and black variegated squirrel. [Also found in Star Wars!](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Nelvaan_squirrel)
> 
> Mirax’s Illya is a Corellian sea otta, NOT a [river otta](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Otta)! They’re totally different! She’s tired of telling all of Wedge’s friends this! The fact that they have very similar dæmons is just a coincidence! Everyone else marks it down as the reason Mirax and Wedge get along so well. 
> 
> Booster’s dæmon is a [Corellian bursa,](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Bursa/Legends) a sort of space bear. She big!


	2. The Heir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set during the same time period covered by the last chapter of "Luminous Creatures."

The Heir 

* * *

The genteel cocktail parties thrown by the New Republic’s political elite to mark the end of the Thrawn Campaign are a far cry from the rowdy, alcohol-fueled parties thrown by the smugglers who fought on the New Republic’s behalf. The palpable, almost frantic sense of triumph that thrums through the smuggler parties in the lowers levels of Coruscant is entirely absent from the tasteful room Karrde finds himself in now. 

The quality of the alcohol, however, is far superior. Karrde takes a sip of a glass of wine from the Takai region of Chandrila, letting the rich flavor slide slowly over his tongue, and makes a mental note to acquire a case of his own. 

Many of the military types scattered around the room look like they would be more comfortable at a beer-soaked bash, and there was a subtle air among the younger politicians—born too late to remember the Old Republic or serve in the Imperial Senate—of children dressing up in their parent’s clothing and hoping no one would notice. 

It’s an odd assembly—and while it doesn’t give Karrde much faith in the long term prospects of the New Republic, here he is, making sure his presence is noted and his people’s contribution to their cause is not forgotten. The galaxy is changing—once again—and he would be a fool if he didn’t have a hand, even indirectly, in how the new order is shaped. 

As unconventional as the assembly is, they’re all here for the same reason: to celebrate the end of the Thrawn campaign and to toast the Grand Admiral’s death. May the bastard rot in whatever hell his people believe in. 

On Karrde’s shoulder, Bellaris clicks her beak inquisitively as Solo saunters over, his dæmon trotting at his heels. The jacket of his dress uniform hangs casually off of his shoulders, covering the strap of a sling strapped across his chest, his arm folded protectively over the small bundle inside. Tucked in the sling, Jacen Solo sleeps through the rise and fall of conversation around them. 

“Karrde,” Solo says jovially. 

“Solo.” 

Bellaris bobs her head in mimicry of a human’s bow, and Solo’s dæmon wags her tail. 

“Good to see you here,” Solo says, “with all us respectable types.” 

“I have reservations, of course.” 

“Of course,” Solo agrees cheerfully. “Happy to have you here anyway.” He pats the bundle at his front absently. 

Karrde inclines his head in acknowledgment, taking another sip of his wine. 

“You know, we could use a man like you. After all the mopping up is done.” Beneath his cheer, Solo is absolutely sincere.

Karrde raises an eyebrow. “A government formed from a loose coalition of former Imperials, Separatists, freedom fighters, and a dozen different idealistic causes. I have my doubts about their long-term chances.” 

The former smuggler's response surprises him. “Your crew—” Solo says. “They all come from all over and don’t always see eye to eye. They manage to work together.” 

“That’s hardly the same thing.” 

“True,” Solo says, looking insufferably smug. “They don’t have Leia.” 

_A smuggling cartel is not a democracy,_ Karrde thinks, _and besides_ —but Solo knows the value of leaving on a snappy line and doesn’t stay to continue the debate. 

“Antilles!” He throws up an arm as the commander enters the room and strides off over to speak to his friend. 

Karrde watches as he and Antilles exchange jibes, before Solo’s wife cuts in. Leia Organa Solo beams as she offers Antilles a loose hug, both of them moving carefully around the sling strapped to her front, containing the other Solo twin. 

As Organa Solo speaks with Antillies, Solo pats her shoulder and moves off again, working his way across the room. His meandering path leads him to where Mara stands, Asyr at her side. Karrde doesn’t think that Solo’s insouciant wandering is as careless and uncalculated as it appears. 

Unlike Solo and Organa, Mara hovers at the edge of the gathering, close to the windows. The simple gown she wears is constructed of layers of gauzy blue fabric—in shades ranging from ultramarine to midnight blue—that drape over her slim form and are gathered above her left shoulder by a shoulder sculpt. The silver sculpt resembles a mass of vines, tendrils curling down her arm. Except for the color, the dress looks vaguely late Imperial, in contrast to the bright colors and varied regalia worn by the rest of the party, each of whom seems to be attempting to boldly represent the native costumes of their home planets. With mixed results, in Karrde’s opinion. 

At this distance Karrde can’t hear what Solo says to Mara, but she listens, her head tilted, looking faintly amused. Her public mask is still in place, but her amusement appears genuine. Asyr, an onyx statue at her side, merely flicks an ear at Solo’s dæmon and turns his head away. While it’s a colder greeting than between most dæmons, it’s clear to Karrde that Asyr doesn’t consider the other dæmon a threat, which is in itself something of a compliment. Solo’s dæmon simply sits in a mirror pose by her human’s side, her tail brushing back and forth along the floor. 

A tiny, pointed snout peeks over the edge of the sling strapped to Solo’s chest, small dark eyes blinking sleepily around the bright room. The pup’s fur is as black as Jacen’s mother’s dæmon. She looks down at Asyr, standing at Mara’s side, and in the blink of an eye, the black fur transforms, going sleek against her head, and her pointed snout shrinks into a blunt nose framed by delicate whiskers. Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly, as if she doesn’t quite know what cry a felinx is supposed to make. 

It hits him unexpectedly, like a blow to his chest, the denial he clung to evaporating like a slain dæmon. 

Mara belongs here now. She belongs among the warriors for peace and justice and whatever other nonsense the former Alliance swears to uphold. Mara could thrive in the echelons of the New Republic, lending her considerable talents to their cause. Karrde pointedly did not pledge his allegiance to the New Republic, but he would like to live in a galaxy where she has some measure of say in the course of galactic events. 

“They’ll be good for her,” Bellaris says softly in his ear. 

“I know, Bel,” he sighs. 

He’d missed her, during the last month of the Thrawn Campaign, when he was pulling together the motley forces of the Smuggler’s Alliance, and she was off on Skywalker’s mission to take out Mount Tantiss. Her sharp and exacting mind would have been invaluable during the crisis, and he would have liked to have had her Force-given “hunches” at his disposal. 

And now he’s going to lose her to Skywalker and his people. 

He was going to make Mara heir to the smuggling empire he’d spent the last fifteen years constructing; years spent meticulously building alliances and spilling blood over territories. It is no small gift, but he knows that Mara would have continued his work after he had gone. 

“You’re getting morbid, aren’t you,” Bellaris observes, narrowing her right eye at him. 

“I hate seeing a plan go to waste,” he says, brushing a nonexistent fleck off the lapel of his suit. Bellaris makes a sympathetic clicking sound with her beak. 

Her talents, now out in the open, could have been invaluable to his organization. Talents that draw her to Skywalker and his new order of Jedi. Such a loss. 

Before he has time to wallow even further in maudlin contemplation, Bellaris gives a soft hiss, a signal that someone is approaching them. 

“Hello, Karrde,” Leia says. 

“Councilor Organa Solo.” He offers her a shallow bow. 

_“Leia,”_ she corrects. 

“Leia,” he agrees, finding himself pleased to speak with her, no matter the occasion. 

The hundreds of reposts and Rebellion propaganda holos Karrde had studied over the years hadn’t prepared him for the force of Leia’s personality in person. He understands now, why troops had followed her into battle and why the Empire had placed such a high price on her head. Perhaps there was something to what Solo had said to him about the New Republic’s chances. 

“You look thoughtful—” she says to him, “what’s on your mind?” 

“Is Skywalker planning to train Mara?” 

Leia’s eyebrows raise. “It sounds like you’re asking me what my brother’s intentions are,” she says, sounding amused. 

“I would like to know whether my Second is going to be recruited into his religious order or not.” 

“He hasn’t said anything to me,” Leia said. “Not yet. But he wants to rebuild the Jedi order—it’s his dream.” Her eyes track across the room, toward her brother. “Luke wants me to complete my training, but…I just don’t have time for it. It’s a lot of pressure.” 

“And Mara would alleviate this pressure.” 

Leia winces, and for a moment he thinks that she might argue the accusation, but she nods. “That was tactless of me. I think Luke’s doing a great thing—a necessary thing—but it feels like Luke’s legacy, not mine. Mara has the talent for it, and she might not feel the same I do.” 

“You think she could become a Jedi.” 

“I do,” Leia says. 

“I had other plans for Mara,” Karrde says, not particularly caring anymore how proprietary that sounds. 

“The Smuggler’s Alliance,” Leia says, sharp as ever. 

“You’ve read my proposal.” 

“Yes, and I think it’s a wonderful idea. I agree that Mara’s right for the liaison role, and the sooner you have someone in the position on Coruscant, the better.” 

“Unless she follows Skywalker to wherever he plans to set up his new Jedi temple,” he says, circling back to his initial concern. 

Leia nods, conceding his point and pats the bundle at her front thoughtfully. Karrde rubs the side of his glass. The wine has gone warm. 

“Terrik,” Bellaris says softly on his shoulder. 

Both he and Leia look at her. 

“Booster?” That couldn’t be right. 

_“Mirax,”_ Leia corrects him as her face lights up. “She’s the perfect choice.” 

Bel is right. He can always count on her to snatch an idea out of the air that had been hovering just out his line of sight. 

Mirax Terrik married into the Rebellion, but the Fringe still respects her for the years she spent running her father’s business when she was barely out of her teens. Her current occupation—procuring rare items for well-to-do patrons with more money than sense—gave her plenty of experience dealing with difficult customers from both ends of the social strata. She’s sharp and determined, and can charm a cyclonic pintle-gudgeon away from a Jawa—a talent she certainly didn’t inherit from her father. She isn’t one of Karrde’s people, but he can trust her, and Mara will approve of the choice. 

Mirax’s terrible taste in men aside. 

_“If_ she’ll take the job,” he points out. 

“I’ll talk to her,” Leia says, “and Corran.” 

Karrde snorts and Leia raises an eyebrow. “I’ve never understood that match,” he says.

“Oh, you know what they say about hotshot pilots,” Leia says, grinning and casting an appreciative look at her husband, who, contrary to his reputation, is beaming as he gives Admiral Ackbar a glimpse of his son, squirming in the sling wrapped over his shoulder.

Luke had been a hotshot pilot once, Karrde knows. The man who destroyed the Death Star with an impossible shot. 

Does Mara find that quality attractive in men as well? He winces internally at that line of thought, rubbing his temple. Bel shifts on his shoulder. He isn’t her _karking father._

His gaze is drawn back across the room to where she stands, making small talk with Calrissian. 

“You should talk to Mara,” Leia says. “Ask her how she feels about training with Luke.” 

On the other side of the room, Jacen squalls and Leia turns, finding her husband and son instantly in the crowd. “Jacen’s hungry,” she sighs. Touching Karrde’s shoulder lightly, she says, “talk to her,” before she leaves him. 

He abandons his wine, too warm to enjoy properly, and straightens his jacket before he crosses the room. 

“I’d like a moment with Mara, if you don’t mind,” he says to Calrissian as the other man turns in his direction.

There’s something calculating in the way Calrissian looks at him, as if weighing a decision in his head. Karrde isn’t sure what conclusion he draws, but Calrissian smiles amiably and makes a theatrical sweep of his arm. “Certainly. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Mara.” 

The use of her first name is overly familiar, and the kiss to her hand overly formal. Mara’s lips thin and Asyr lashes his tail. Bellaris cackles softly in Karrde’s ear. The starling on Calrissian’s shoulder puffs out her orange chest and ruffles her gleaming blue feathers, but Calrissian simply flashes a wide smile and strolls off. 

As soon as Calrissian is out of range, Karrde raises an eyebrow. 

“What did Organa Solo say to you?” Mara asks, cutting him off before he can comment on Calrissian’s attentions. 

He lets it go. “We had a discussion about the Smuggler’s Alliance.” 

“It’s unsustainable,” she says. “The first time a smuggler hits an NR-affiliated shipping line, it’ll all be over. You’re wasting your time.” 

Her lack of faith in his project stings a little. The thought crosses his mind that she might not be suited to the post after all—but he dismisses it as a petty reaction to her comment. At another time he might have talked her around to his point of view, but he’ll save that particular speech for Mirax. 

He reminds himself to focus instead on his satisfaction that she still feels free to voice her opinion openly, in spite of everything that’s happened in the last twelve months. She’s come so far from the defensive, damaged young woman who saved his life in a bar only two years ago. 

“I thought you might serve as liaison to the New Republic, but Leia thinks you should train with Skywalker instead.” 

Her face freezes up a little, the barest flinch before she recovers. “I can’t just walk away from the syndicate,” she says. 

“You can. I think you should.” Karrde ignores the tight feeling in his chest. 

Whatever she had expected him to say, it wasn’t that. “You don’t think Skywalker’s dream is...foolish?” There’s something tentative in her question. 

“I saw a Jedi once, when I was a child.” 

This sparks her interest, he can tell. 

“I grew up on the edge of the Republic,” he begins slowly. “I remember when the galaxy was at peace, before the Clone Wars and the Empire. A peace, we were always told, that was preserved by the Jedi Order—not that anyone had actually seen a Jedi before.” 

He’s never spoken about his childhood before; not to Mara, not to anyone. It was his way of protecting those he left behind. He owed it to them. On his shoulder, Bel preens the hair at his temple, her beak running soothingly through the strands. 

The elegant mansion constructed from sheets of shimmering micalite swims in front of his eyes, and he swears he can smell the ocean spray wafting over the grassy hills. Bellaris had loved soaring on the wind over the kala grass, the grey-green sea shining in the distance. 

“One year there was a local dispute between two of the planets in the system, and a Jedi was called in to arbitrate. I saw him—from a distance, mind you—while he was staying on planet.” 

His father had allowed him to slip down to the main hall and crouch behind one of the false panels to watch the welcoming ceremony for the Jedi. Lord Mazon must have known he was there—but as always, he indulged Karrde’s curiosity. 

Karrde would always remember the way the Jedi drew the eye as he walked into the hall, despite his peasant’s robes. There was something in his presence that commanded attention; a sense of purpose and surety that hung around him like the plain brown robes he wore. His dæmon was a large red wolf, who glided gracefully at his side. 

Karrde’s mother maintained the small service of protocol droids who ambled out on stiff legs, laden with drinks and refreshments. The Jedi ate and drank, like everyone else. He spoke to Lord Mazon and answered questions posed by the other planetary dignitaries who had traveled out to the Big House just to lay eyes on the Jedi. 

Growing bored of the Jedi, Karrde watched the wolf. She stood by the Jedi’s side with a preternatural stillness, her calm dark eyes watching the assembly with what appeared to be limitless patience. No one who lived or worked at the Big House had a large predator dæmon, and Karrde had never seen a wolf dæmon before. His mother had a clever little skitter rat dæmon, who could climb down into the hard to reach parts of a droid while she was making repairs, and his father had a small but stately nekkarr cat. Lord Mazon had a convor dæmon as white as the ice that frosted the kala grass in the wintertime. Bellaris tried on a wolf form several times after the Jedi’s visit, but even though a few more years would pass before she settled, they could already tell it didn’t suit her. 

Sooner than he liked, Karrde was called away to run errands for his father, who was intent on making sure that his lordship’s event ran as smoothly as shimmer silk. Hospitality was his father’s calling and his religion. Karrde was still young enough that he didn’t have a fixed occupation in the household, but old enough to be on hand for any small task that needed doing. 

“I didn’t see him perform any great feats or use any of his so-called magic powers. But when the Jedi spoke, the most powerful men and women on that planet listened. I never forgot that.” 

Since Mara’s abilities came to light, he’s had time to wonder if things would have been different if the Jedi Order had survived. Would her family have given her up to the Jedi Order instead of the Emperor, to be raised among others with the same remarkable talents? The Jedi would have nurtured and protected her, taught her to uphold the peace and order of the Republic. 

Instead, that birthright had been stolen from her. 

“Then they were all gone.” He waves his hand through the air, as if brushing aside cigarra smoke. 

In the absence of the Jedi, the Empire rose and consumed the galaxy, and it took another Jedi to bring it to its knees. “I’ve seen what Skywalker can do—and I understand what he _could_ do. I don’t think you should take an offer to join him lightly.” 

There’s something petulant in the way she tightens her jaw and cuts her gaze away across the room. She’s never as good as hiding her anger as she thinks. 

“Consider it,” he says. 

“Mara! Karrde!”

And there he is, the New Republic’s golden boy. The smile he offers is easy, disarming, and the sincere way he asks after members of Karrde’s crew is unexpectedly charming. It’s hard to resent him. 

Mara’s face slips back into a polite mask, giving nothing away. Karrde glances down at Asyr instead. Asyr’s green gaze is fixed on Skywalker’s wolf, who stands a respectful distance away from the other dæmon, watching him with the same attentiveness. Karrde might call it fascination. Neither speak, though they seem to communicate all the same, paying no attention to the strange tension between their humans. 

Karrde could stay here and watch the conversation turn in awkward little circles around whatever it is that Skywalker actually wants to ask Mara. That option could be entertaining in its own way, but if he stays, he’ll compromise whatever answer she gives. Karrde is certain that Mara will be a fine Jedi one day, but first she and Skywalker have to work out whatever this thing is between them. 

A quick scan of the room provides an escape: Solo, carrying Jaina now, is already heading his way. It’s too convenient a distraction for it to be a coincidence. Karrde suspects that Solo was watching Skywalker, though perhaps Leia sent him; Karrde sees her watching surreptitiously from a corner as she tends to Jacen. Skywalker is oblivious to his friend’s hovering or his sister’s interference. Oblivious to anything but Mara. 

“I think that Solo wants to speak with me,” Karrde says drily, indicating with a tilt of his head. “Think about what I said,” he tells Mara, touching her arm lightly before he goes. 

She looks lost for a moment, adrift—before she composes herself and nods, turning back to Skywalker. 

Or perhaps he’s flattering himself. She was his lieutenant, his protégé, nothing more. He isn’t her family. She doesn’t owe him anything. 

“I know that look,” Solo says, his finger jabbing out as Karrde approaches. A sympathetic expression creases his brow. “Mara and Luke, huh?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Karrde says flatly. 

“Sure you don’t.” His expression slips back into smug and cradles the sling closer. “It’s rough when they run off to join some mystical cult. Not much you can do about it, though.” 

Karrde crosses his arms and ignores how Bellaris’s talons dig into the shoulder of his dress jacket. “The loss to my organization will be reflected in the bill I sent to the Provisional Council.” 

“Yeah, I figured,” Han says, his smirk still too knowing for Karrde’s tastes. He glances over at Mara and Luke, still deep in conversation. 

Karrde doesn’t follow his gaze; doesn’t need to look in order to know what expression Mara has on her face. That intense focus that comes over her when something's caught her attention, her brittle outer shell slipping away. 

“The thing is—“ Solo continues, gesturing toward his daughter. “I’d pay anything to keep them safe and happy.” 

“I doubt the council will feel the same way.” 

“I’m not talking about the council,” Solo says. “It’s—never mind.” He shakes his head. 

All of a sudden, Karrde realizes he’s had enough of making small talk with the New Republic’s heroes; enough of making nice with Skywalker’s family, no matter how powerful and well-connected they are. Enough of the sympathetic looks Solos keeps throwing him. 

There’s a queue of files back on the ship he needs to review, and a dissertation on the effect of Myrkr flora on long-range sensors that he’s been looking forward to reading. 

It can wait. There are still members of the council who need convincing on the value of the Smuggler’s Alliance to the New Republic. Mara might scoff, but the Smuggler’s Alliance is more than a vanity project or another means to spite the Empire. It may not have the prestige of Luke Skywalker’s Jedi Academy, but it’s another measure to keep his people safe in a galaxy under the New Republic’s unlikely but inevitable rule. He could ask her to speak with Akbar about relaxing sanctions—but no. He has to get accustomed to not having her at his side. 

“Bel Iblis, to your left,” Bellaris whispers in his ear. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Karrde says. 

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Solo says. He twists around searching the room for his wife. Karrde watches his posture relax when he spots her, before he scans the crowd for his next mark, patting the bundle in his arms absently. 

Bel Iblis appears to be wrapping up a conversation with a young Twi’lek aide, his gaze wandering toward Mon Mothma across the room. Karrde can intercept him before he reaches the Chief Councilor. On his shoulder, Bellaris shifts her feet in anticipation, a wary eye on the other politicians standing within range of Bel Iblis as he approaches the general. 

“General—may I have a word?” 

There's always work to do. 


	3. Campfire Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For atamascolily and everyone who missed hiking during the quarantine. 
> 
> Set between _A New Hope_ and _The Empire Strikes Back._

**Campfire Tales**

* * *

As soon as they land on D’Qar, the green place beyond the underground bunker where the Rebel Alliance has set up a temporary base calls out to Luke, the dark canopy of leaves beckoning to him. A bluish haze hangs over the wooded mountain range that surrounds the valley, the forests a green so deep they look black in certain lights. Luke finds himself standing in the entryway to the bunker in the evenings, transfixed by color, wondering if there are names for every different shade of green he can see. He can still count the number of forests he’s seen in person on one hand. 

For the last two weeks, he’s been stuck underground, helping the crew set up the base, and he’s itching to spend some time under the sky again. Being assigned to a planetside base always takes some getting used to. The pace of life crawls by between missions, and the obscure, empty worlds where the Rebellion chose to hide were odd interludes between the frantic intensity of skirmishes with the Empire. As soon as his duty schedule is clear, he wants to go and explore the forest that rolls over the hills to the foot of the mountains. 

“Why do you wanna do that?” Han asks, wiping grease off of his fingers. Leia leans around the side of the speeder Han’s been working on, hands on her hips. She purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything. 

Luke can’t explain the urge, though it reminds him of that restless feeling that always came over him after being trapped in the homestead after a long sandstorm. “Miré needs to get out,” he says instead. “She needs to go for a run.” 

Han and Leia nod in tandem, satisfied with this reasoning. They’ve all been cooped up in ships and bases for months, and it’s only natural for a dæmon like Miré to need to go out and stretch her legs. 

“Take Chewie with you,” Han says. “Maybe he’ll shoot something we can eat.” 

Leia makes a face, and something in Han’s face sparks—a particular expression he makes around Leia that’s becoming increasingly familiar and already a little bit tedious, if Luke’s being honest. 

“Don’t turn your nose up, your highness, one time we were trapped on Raydonia—deal gone wrong with the Kresh gang, and there we were, stranded…”

Han’s stories are always meandering and vaguely implausible, and Luke usually likes to listen to him spin them out, but the itch is still there, simmering under his skin. Han already has exactly the audience he wants to listen to his yarn: Leia, with her head tilted skeptically, Kian at her side, ears cocked. Luke doesn’t feel the least bit guilty slinking away. 

Chewbacca looks relieved to be interrupted in the middle of untangling a mass of wires hanging out of an electrical panel on the Falcon. He rumbles his approval as he ambles back to his bunk to pick up his bowcaster and bandolier, the carryall pouch hanging at the end of the strap. 

Luke takes a detour to the supply depot to pick up a pair of hiking boots and put together a small pack—enough ration packs for the both of them, compass, the obligatory medpac—and joins Chewbacca at the wide hanger doors to the base. 

The hills around the base are spotted with the occasional low shrub that become more frequent as they near the forest. Chewie explains that in a couple of decades, the woods will creep over the hills, nearing the base. As they approach, he points out different types of plants, many of them listed in the files on D’Qar: the soft bola grass underfoot, tempna bushes with long thin leaves, turquoise palomella blossoms, tall jibjibi tees and squat jibna trees. The temperature drops under the dense umbrella of overlapping leaves, and Luke's glad he brought his jacket. The rich, complex smell of the forest fills his head—both sharp and pungent—so different from the desert when he was raised it's almost overwhelming at first. New sounds catch at his ears the deeper they travel into the woods. He can hear bird songs, insects clicking and whirring, and the soft shush of the leaves overhead. It’s worlds away from the sounds of machines and people back at the base. 

Luke is glad for Chewbacca’s company. Every night before bed, he had poured over the files on D’Qar’s forest, but a week’s worth of study can’t compare with Chewie’s vast knowledge of arboreal environments. The Wookie can pick out the faintest trail and spot signs in the undergrowth of animals that have passed through. He prevents Luke from stumbling into a thorny, poisonous bush at one point, and sees things in the forest that Luke doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t shoot anything, and seems just as content as Luke to wander through the trees. 

They walk for hours, and Luke barely notices the passage of time until the light begins to fade, shadows thickening the forest. He doesn’t feel the urge to turn back and return to the base tonight. Chewie seems to feel the same way. He picks out a small clearing and digs a fire pit as Luke gathers kindling. 

Luke sits across from Chewie as the Wookie builds it up to a steady crackle, Miré flopping down on the ground between them. A comfortable silence settles in the small gove as they finish the ration bars from Luke’s pack. The jibjibi trees make a canopy over their heads, their large green leaves shot through with a delicate web of red veins. Luke watches the flash of iridescent wings as an insect flits through the trees overhead. 

Chewie pulls his bowcaster onto his lap and pulls two small bottles of oil out of his carrybag. He begins to tend to the bowcaster, easing small drops of oil from the first bottle into the joins of metal. 

Luke unhooks his lightsaber from his belt and sighs, turning the weapon over in his hands. He didn’t think to bring the tools he’d need to do his own maintenance. Chewie looks up, sees the lightsaber cradled in his hands, and fishes a little tool kit out of a pouch that hangs from his bandolier, passing it wordlessly to Luke. 

“Thanks.” 

It’s a well-equipped kit for its size. There’s a wiping cloth in the kit, and Luke unfolds it and lays it on the ground. He places each lightsaber part on the cloth as he disassembles the weapon. Pommel cap, power cell, crystal mount, modulation circuits, adjuster knobs, magnetic stabilizing ring, and all the interconnecting wires. Using a tiny brush, he scrapes out any grit that might have accumulated in the grooves. He doesn’t remove the crystal from the mount, for fear of damaging the delicate balance, but the crystal gleams a deep blue in the flickering light. 

A strange focus that comes over him whenever he works on his lightsaber. Time ceases to exist, a calm falling over him. All of his attention is concentrated on the lightsaber and he feels like he can see every piece in perfect detail in his hands. It’s a slow process that Luke intends to practice, over and over, until he knows every single piece intimately, and can assemble the weapon in his sleep. 

After he’s cleaned and tended to the lightsaber parts, he carefully puts it back together again. As the last piece is slotted into place, the world around him filters back in: the smoky smell of the campfire, the chirping and clicking of nocturnal animals, the rustle of leaves overhead in a light breeze. Luke blinks. He looks up and sees Chewie watching him. 

_“Like a paatashika.”_

Luke doesn’t recognize the word. Although he’s picked up a lot over the last few years, he still isn’t as fluent in Kashyyyk as Han. Chuckling at his confusion, Chewie says, _“it’s a ritual on Kashyyyk.”_ He gestures to his bowcaster. “ _This is paatashika.”_

“Your bowcaster?” 

Chewie chuckles. _“Not the bowcaster. The care of the bowcaster.”_ He squeezes a drop from the second bottle onto the handle of the bowcaster and rubs the oil into the black-stained wood. 

“Did you construct your bowcaster yourself?” Luke asks. 

Chewie nods. _“The people of the trees created the bowcaster for hunting,”_ he says, using the Shyriiwook name the Wookies called themselves, _“for feeding their families. But now they are weapons of war.”_

Luke focuses on the rhythm of Chewie’s voice, turning all his attention on the Wookie’s words. The Shyriiwook becomes clearer as Luke concentrates, phrases and idioms growing clearer in his mind as he listens. It feels a little like the state of mind he slips into when he works on his saber. 

Chewbacca indicates the wooden handle of the bowcaster. _“This is made from a branch that fell from my clan tree.”_ Another moment stretches out before he continues, his fingers working the oil into the wood. _“Wookies don’t have animal souls like humans do. We have the clan trees. There is a clan tree for every Wookie clan on Kashyyyk, and the tree is the soul of the clan.”_

“Is your clan tree like your dæmon?” 

_“No, but something like. Part of our spirit dwells there. It is said that after a Wookie dies, no matter where they meet their end, the part of their spirit that lives in their body will return to their clan tree.”_ Chewie shrugs, as though he isn’t sure he really believes that part of the tale. 

_“There were a few Wookies who were called to your order, you know.”_

“The Jedi order?” Luke can’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “There were Jedi Wookies?” 

Chewbacca chuckles, well aware of how hungry Luke is for any scrap of information about the Jedi Order. He’s shared a few stories about the Jedi he met, decades ago, and about the battle he fought with the Jedi in the Clone Wars. But he’s never said anything about his own people joining the order. 

_“A few. When they became Jedi, they left their family clans, and their souls became animals, like yours. They took on the form of—”_ Another word Luke can’t translate, no matter how hard he focuses on the Shyriiwook. When he asks Chewie to describe the animal, it sounds like some sort of sloth, or maybe a binturong. 

“I didn’t know that was possible.” 

_“I don’t know how it was done. A secret Jedi ritual?”_

Luke can’t answer the question, so he just shakes his head, feeling a little ashamed of his ignorance. There’s so much he doesn’t know about the Jedi. He didn’t even know that there were Wookie Jedi. He didn’t think to ask. 

Chewie tilts his head and says thoughtfully, _“perhaps because they no longer belonged to any of the Wookie clans. The Jedi Order became their clan, and so they gained a Jedi soul.”_

Luke still wonders how such a thing was done. That day in the desert flashes across his mind; when he and Miré’s bond was stretched thin and she returned to him in her chosen form. Did a Wookie’s dæmon come to them, in their adult form, after some trial or trauma? Where did the dæmon exist before then? In the clan tree? 

_“I’m glad you’re bringing the Jedi ways back,”_ Chewbacca says. 

Luke shifts a little, uncomfortable. He vowed to follow his father’s footsteps and become a Jedi Knight, but he isn’t even sure how to do _that._

_“The Jedi had sacred trees, too, you know. They planted great uneti trees at the heart of every Jedi Temple.”_

“I didn’t know that either.” 

Chewie makes a thoughtful sound. _“I don’t know if any uneti trees survived. Or if they all died with the Jedi.”_ Something in Chewbacca’s expression darkens. 

_“When the Imperial dogs came to Kashyyyk, they burned the tree of the Hanakrr clan. Every member of the Hanakrr clan died, and all family lines that belonged to the clan were lost forever. We surrendered. We had no choice.”_

Chewbacca bares his teeth as he speaks, his voice low and rough. Luke can sense his grief; a thick, murky feeling that tugs at something deep in his chest. Miré noses her head onto Luke’s lap, whining almost inaudibly. 

_“We could not let the forest burn.”_

Luke understands now why Chewbacca chose to stay after the battle of Yavin, and feels momentarily overwhelmed by the knowledge of all the cruelties the Empire has inflicted on the galaxy. He never even knew. 

“Thank you,” Luke says. “For sharing your people’s story with me.” 

Chewie nods stroking his hands over his bowcaster. _“It is said that when the Empire is dead and the tree people are free again, all the clan trees will flower at once. I hope to live to see it.”_

“I’m sure you will,” Luke says. “It sounds beautiful.”

Chewie meets his eyes across the campfire. _“I would like to bring you with me, to see the clan trees in bloom. Han and the Princess too, of course.”_

“I would be honored,” Luke says. 

Something pops in the fire, sending up a brief plume of flame. The tension eases and Miré sighs heavily, contentedly. 

“Will you help me find a uneti tree,” Luke asks, “after the war?” 

Chewbacca nods regally. _“It would be an honor.”_

When the war is over. When the Empire has been defeated, and Luke can take the time to search for remnants of the Jedi Order, and piece together what was lost. 

When the war is over, and the Wookies are free again. 

_Soon,_ Luke hopes fervently, _soon._


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leia stumbles onto some insight into Luke and Mara’s relationship. Set a few months after _Luminous Creatures._

Interlude 

* * *

Leia nearly trips over her own feet when she comes into the living room and sees Luke stretched out on the couch, dozing, Asyr wrapped around him. Luke’s arm is curled around Asyr’s middle and the felinx’s head is tucked into his neck. It’s an intimate thing, to see someone touch another person’s dæmon, and this is well beyond that. 

And it’s _Asyr_. 

The felinx dæmon lifts his head and hisses at her. 

“I _know_ ,” Leia whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

“Leia?” Luke mumbles. 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Come ‘ere.” 

He touches Asyr’s back and the dæmon drops his head and curls into Luke again, ignoring Leia. 

“Miré’s with Mara. They like to swap places.” His voice is thick with affection as he looks down at Mara’s dæmon. 

Kian leans against Leia’s knee as she sits on the edge of the low caf table in front of the couch. Asyr would probably dig his claws into Kian’s nose if he got any closer, half asleep or not. 

“I didn’t realize you were so serious.” Leia tries to keep the giddy feeling that bubbles up in her out of her voice as she speaks, but she knows that Luke, being Luke, can probably sense it anyway. 

“Yeah,” Luke says, a little bashful. It’s sweet. 

“I’m happy for you.” Happier than she can say. She knows he’s been lonely. He deserves someone who will love him as devotedly as Han loves her, and if the scene she just walked in on is any indication, Mara already has a strong bond with her brother. 

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” Luke says sheepishly. 

Leia waves her hand. Luke would have told her as soon as Mara was ready. “I’m sorry I walked in on you. Artoo said you were in your study, and you hadn’t blocked the guest code to the door.” 

He shrugs. “I was. Then I got tired of pouring over reports. How are the twins?” 

She knows he’s using the question to distract her from interrogating him about Mara—though she suspects he would be happy to brag about Mara if she weren’t so fiercely private. She’ll ambush him later, when Asyr isn’t curled up pointedly between them. 

“Finally sleeping through the night—most nights. Cal,”—Jaina’s Calphilion—“shifts _constantly._ We can’t keep track. Well, I think Threepio’s keeping a tally.” She laughs, thinking of the little dæmon watching Threepio with rounded eyes as the droid produced a droning lullaby that he claimed was particularly soothing to baby Jawas. Luke laughs too, when she tells him the story. 

“He’s fascinated by Threepio—both the dæmons are. Han says it’s because he’s the shiniest thing in the apartment.” 

Has she told Luke this already? She forgets which anecdotes she’s told already; forgets whether she told Luke about Threepio and the twins or if she’d told the Ambassador from Bakura instead. The Bakuran Ambassador hadn’t been amused. 

When she’d slipped away from the apartment today she _meant_ to seek out her brother for a little conversation that didn’t revolve around sleep schedules and diapers. They were going to talk about his plans for the Jedi academy or...whatever, Leia is sure something would have come up. 

“Cass”—Jacen’s dæmon, Casadalia, didn’t change forms as frequently as his sister’s dæmon— “spent the last two days as a jackal pup. Han was thrilled.” 

“Naturally,” Luke laughs. He starts to say something else and then pauses, his mouth slightly ajar, eyes unfocused, gaze shifting away from her. “Mara’s here.” 

Leia still has to concentrate to sense anyone approaching, a skill that always seems to come effortlessly to Luke. It’s annoying. 

They hear the door to the apartment open, and Mara and Miré appear in the doorway to the living room a few moments later. Leia is used to the extraordinary distances Miré can travel from Luke, and the familiar ease with which she treats his friends and their dæmons, but there’s something different—something proprietary—in the way Miré keeps to Mara’s side. Mara hesitates for a moment, her eyes moving from Leia and Kian to Luke and Asyr together on the couch, her expression carefully neutral. 

Miré trots over, touches noses briefly with Kian and then tries to climb up onto the couch beside Asyr and Luke. Luke laughs and shoves her away. Asyr makes a grumbling noise but doesn't move from where he’s burrowed into Luke’s side. When Miré settles into the narrow space between the couch and the caf table, Asyr twists around and begins to clean Miré ’s head with his tongue, which Miré tolerates patiently. Luke acts like all of this is normal. 

Mara doesn’t join Luke on the couch. Instead, she chooses a chair across the table from Leia, to Luke’s left. She lowers herself gracefully onto the chair, her movements as perfectly balanced as her dæmon’s. She looks catlike, perched on the edge of the cushion, as though she might spring away at the slightest provocation. 

Mara says, with a smirk in her voice, “The Corellian exports minister finds it unnerving when I show up with a different dæmon than I had the day before.” 

This sly, mischievous side of Mara takes Leia by surprise. A welcome surprise. 

“He might think you’re a clone,” she points out, grinning. “And your dæmon just never settled.” 

“Unlikely,” Mara counters, though a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “But possible.” 

“Or maybe you’re not entirely human.” Luke joins the game, and Mara answers with a mocking quirk of an eyebrow. “I don’t mind if you’re not entirely human,” he says, in a feigned condescending tone he can’t really pull off. He’s too affectionate. 

Mara just snorts. 

Leia likes her very much. “Come by tonight, for dinner,” she says to Mara, on impulse. “We’d love to have you.” 

Mara looks started by the invitation. She goes very still. 

“I promise I won’t be cooking,” Leia says dryly. 

Mara glances at Luke and then quickly away. By his side, Asyr lifts his head and the tip of his tail. 

Mara raises her head and looks Leia in the eye. “Alright,” she says, as if accepting a challenge. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” Leia says, with a wave of her hand. It’s such a small gesture, and after everything Mara’s done for her family, it’s stranger to Leia that she hasn’t become a permanent fixture in their lives. She intends to change that. “You can bring this nerf herder if you want, but that’s up to you.” 

Luke straightens, eyes bright, opening his mouth to convince Mara. Leia swats his arm. 

“Hey,” Luke says, making an exaggerated face in offence. 

“It’s Mara’s decision,” Leia says. 

She hopes that Mara will bring Luke, but she doesn’t want Mara to feel any pressure over her relationship with Luke, especially not from his own family. Leia certainly knows how claustrophobic it can feel when everyone has an opinion about your relationship. It’s unavoidable to some extent; they’re all public figures now, and Luke is the New Republic’s only Jedi. But not for long, Leia hopes, noting the lightsaber at Mara’s belt. Luke had told her that the act of gifting his father’s lightsaber to Mara was an invitation to join the Jedi Order and a symbol of Mara’s triumph against C’baoth—but it’s clear now he had another meaning in mind. Maybe she’ll get the whole story out of him one day. 

Leia lets Mara know when she should arrive, and that she isn’t expected to bring anything. Luke holds his tongue—he’s gotten _considerably_ better at keeping his peace than when they first met—and strokes the top of Asyr’s head. Asyr is _purring._ Leia tries not to stare. 

“You’re welcome any time,” she tells Mara. “Honestly. Any time.” 

She’s not sure Mara believes her. One step at a time. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Luke’s hand slink across the couch to catch Mara’s as it hangs over the arm of her chair. They appear to have bolted past several steps themselves, but then again, her brother isn’t known for doing things by halves. 

She glances at Kian, who gives her a sideways look, knowing and conspiratorial. Something seizes in her chest at his expression—and without warning, she’s back on Alderaan, exchanging that same knowing look with Kian after Winter had come back from a rendezvous with the dreamy young Lord of the House of Oderon. 

She and Winter hadn’t had much time for romance in those days, which had Leia deemed frivolous in comparison with the work they were beginning to do for the Rebellion. But Lord Hassan _had_ been very handsome. 

He was only twenty-one when he died in the blast that incinerated Alderaan whole. 

She blinks away the hot sting of tears and looks up to see four sets of eyes on her. _Jedi,_ she thinks in exasperation. Even Asyr has raised his head to watch her. From the look in those glass-green eyes, she knows he recognizes her distress—he knows how memory can take hold sometimes, swift and merciless. 

The Empire left its mark on all of them. 

The urge to offer comfort, to console—which has grown even fiercer since the twins were born—wells up, but Leia takes a breath and sets it aside. Not now. Mara is like a skittish pookitak, and Leia doesn’t want to frighten her off. 

Asyr blinks and flicks an ear in a show of indifference before bending his head to resume tonging Miré’s head aggressively. Mara looks away at the same time, down at Asyr and Miré, and then at her hand, still entangled with Luke’s, as though she’s not sure how she ended up here or how she feels about it. 

“I need to get back to the twins,” Leia says, standing. They’ve woken from their naps now, she’s sure. There’s a light tug at the back of her head that she feels whenever one of them wants her attention. Even though she knows that Han is perfectly happy to care for the twins in her absence, it’s hard to ignore that call. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

Kian rises as well. Miré lifts her head, shaking off Asyr, her tail thumping against the side of the couch. They touch noses before Kian moves to Leia’s side. 

If her exit is a little rushed, Luke and Mara hardly notice. The nudge at the back of her head is getting more insistent—Jacen, she thinks. _I’ll be home soon,_ she sends back, _soon,_ though she doesn’t think that Jacen is old enough to understand, and her telepathy skills are still shaky at best. 

* * *

“I’m home,” she calls unnecessarily when she steps through the door to the apartment. She finds Han sitting on the couch in the living room, feet propped up on the table, trying to calm as fussy, squirming Jacen. Tucked on the couch next to them, Cass gives out tiny, melodramatic howls in counterpoint to Jacen’s squalls. Han looks flustered. 

The twins’ cradle hovers beside the couch. Leia can see Jaina inside, babbling happily as Cal, in butterfly form, makes little loops in the air above her head. 

“Now, now,” Leia says as she takes Jacen from Han and settles on the couch beside him. Jacen hiccups uncertainly and looks at her with big, watery eyes before stuffing his fingers into his mouth and beginning to suck. 

“We were doing just fine…” Han looks a little put out at first, but any ruffled feathers are soon overcome by relief as Cass goes quiet and settles by Leia’s side. 

“I know,” Leia says, and she isn't just saying that to placate him. He’s good with the twins, who aren’t usually so particular which parent soothes them. 

“How’s Luke?” he asks as he turns to scoop Jaina into his arms. 

Leia grins, thrilled to be the one to spill the news that Luke and Mara are _definitely_ an item. That she saw Asyr sleeping in Luke’s lap. And he was _purring._ Kian laughs softly. 

“What is it?” Han asks, his brow furrowing at her gleeful expression. If Luke didn’t want her to tell Han, he should have said something before she left. 

“I have something to tell you…” she begins. 

She can’t wait to see the look on Han’s face. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr @celinamarniss


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